I went to a fancy-dress do for new year’s eve. The theme was “80s rock”, which made me wonder if I could get away with punk rock. In fact, I wondered if I could get away with being punk rock poet honey monster legend John Cooper Clarke.

For the record, the answer to my wondering was a resounding “no”. The rock of the 1980s seems to mean almost exclusively “big hair, big guitars” to the young ‘uns (and there were a frightening number of young ‘uns there.) But I was happy to spend a few hours dressed basically in a suit and sunglasses. I imagine most people thought I was a kind of big-haired Elvis Costello; what they made of me stood alongside K. as Adam Ant is anyone’s guess.

Anyway, while I was trying to get into character – and accent – I started thinking about John Cooper Clarke’s poems, and imagining alternative lyrics to ones like Burnley, with its regional references probably meaning nothing this far south. I jotted down bits of what I came up with – you know, in case I was recognized and subsequently lionized by the local music press – and here’s roughly what I ended up with.

Hailey

I’ll tell you now, and I’ll tell you gaily:
I don’t never want to go to Hailey.
What they do there… Well, words fail me;
Why would anyone commute there daily?

I’ll tell you thrice so it sinks in, cock:
I don’t never want to go to Finstock;
I don’t never want to go to Finstock;
I don’t never want to go to Finstock.

Do I want to go to Aston?
I’d much rather head straight past ’em
The price of jugs there leaves me aghast, an’
I don’t never want to go to Aston.

I’ll tell you now, and it’s importan’:
I don’t never want to go to Brize Norton.
I’ll tell you now, just like I told Alice Wexford:
I don’t never want to go to… Minster Lovell.